The Game is On
by Sharadethia
Summary: John receives a text from Moriarty, a challenge. He has twelve days to find the man he thought was dead, Sherlock Holmes. If he fails, he loses his life, if he wins, he finds his best friend again. The decision was easy, but finding the man won't be.
1. Chapter 1

Day One:

John Watson was many things. He was smart, but not brilliant, he was brave, but not full of bravado, and he was desperate. Sitting on the plane to America, he had a great many things running through his head, most of them revolving around the address of 221B Baker Street. He took a deep breath and looked out the window of the plane. The tickets had cost him all the money he had saved in the last year, but he didn't care. The small, expensive jet was the only thing that got him to his destination fast enough.

* * *

><p>His phone buzzed once, and John tried to ignore it, tucking it into the pocket of the chair in front of him. It buzzed twice, and the doctor set his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. It buzzed a third time, and he finally lost his patience. The number was familiar. He put it to his ear.<p>

"Hello, Mycroft," he said evenly. "How long have you known?" There was a silence on the other end of the phone. As the quiet settled, John could hear the noises of computer keys clicking in the background and something being printed.

"John, this is not the best ti-" the older Holmes was abruptly cut off.

"No, I'm not listening to any more of your lies! I know he's alive. And you didn't tell me. You let me believe…" John trailed off as he noticed that he was raising his voice, disturbing the woman across the aisle. "You let me believe that my best friend was dead." Mycroft gave an audible sigh.

"He told me not to tell you. It was in your best interests, I assure you." John looked at the roof of the plane and counted to five before responding, his voice no more than a hiss.

"I need all the information you have on Sherlock."

"Why, John? I have tried looking for him, and I have not succeeded. He does not want to be found." John looked out the window at the ocean far below the plane.

"Because I've gotten into a game, Mycroft, and I need all the help that I can get."

* * *

><p>It started with a simple text. John had looked at his phone distastefully and kicked it under the couch. The stupid thing reminded him too much of his dead flat-mate. It was maddening. As a doctor, John knew that it was just catharsis. Every time he saw the phone, he remembered the man who had shown him an entirely different way of thinking. It was painful, but at least Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be forgotten; John believed in Sherlock Holmes. It buzzed again, a new text message. And again. And again. John sighed and fished under the couch for it. Maybe it was a call that surgery needed more back up. Maybe it was Mycroft checking up on him again. John opened the first message to see that it was a picture. He furrowed his eyebrows and downloaded the image. After a moment of loading, a picture popped up on his screen.<p>

Without hesitation, he threw his phone across the room and jumped to his feet, ignoring the sudden, piercing ache in his leg. "No!" he roared at the phone. The phone buzzed again. John turned away, shaking his head. Sherlock was dead. He knew that much. After a moment of deliberation, he picked up the phone and opened the newest text.

_Would you like to play a game? –JM _

John blinked and stared at the screen. He looked out the windows of his new flat and glanced around to see if there was anyone out on the road, looking up at him. There was no one, but an old, decrepit dog wandering down the small street. John's hands were shaking violently. He texted back laboriously,

_Who is this? –JW_

There was no hesitation when the next message came back.

_James Moriarty. Don't you remember me? Or are you just dull? –JM_

John let out a shallow breath and flipped open his inbox. He pulled up the picture he had received. In the middle of the grainy image was tall figure with curly, dark hair. He was mid-step, wearing dress pants and a red, button-up shirt. John's heart skipped a beat as he dared to hope that maybe this wasn't a joke.

_Would you like to play a game, dear doctor? –JM_

_What game?-JW_

John was quickly dubious. He was brought back to his senses with a glance to the skull he had place on his mantelpiece, the only thing of Sherlock's that he had taken from the flat. And the skull was glaring at him. It was like it was accusing him of being stupid.

"Don't be ignorant, John," he could have sworn he heard Sherlock say, his voice coming from the skull. John shook his head. Sherlock was dead and someone was trying to play with him. Or maybe it really was Moriarty. But whatever the case was, Sherlock was gone, dead.

_Well, Doctor Watson, I will give you twelve days to find Sherlock Holmes. If you don't find him, I get to kill you. –JM_

The scenario was so twisted and wrong, but John's breath was catching in his throat with excitement. He looked around his empty flat. His life was boring. Every day he woke up, headed to the surgery, headed back to the flat, ate, and slept. He often considered heading to the roof and following Sherlock's steps.

_I know you're bored. –JM_

And it was true. The ache in John's leg had come back with crippling vengeance, often making walking unbearably painful. And his hands shook, often making texting difficult and writing even more so. Life was struggle. He was sick of it.

_Sherlock is dead. –JW_

_You can believe that. But I know you still want to play. –JM_

The worst part was, it was true. The cold adrenaline sifting through John's veins was clearing his mind, dulling the throbbing in his leg, and steadying his hands. It was like a drug.

_And if I don't find him?-JW_

There was a moment of silence. John was beginning to start planning everything out in his head. The picture looked like it was taken in Florida, maybe. America was a good place to start, anyway; a former comrade of his who had moved to the deep south owed him a favour or two. And he knew that the man had access to a lot of good sources. Maybe he could use that to find Sherlock.

But then he reminded himself, Sherlock was dead.

_Then I get to send him the photos of your disembowelment. Are you interested? –JM_

And even though he was panicking, he typed,

_Yes. –JW_

He didn't know what he was typing. He didn't know what he was thinking. As soon as the small message popped up on his screen, informing him that the message had been sent, the skull began to hurl abuses at him.

"What are you thinking, John?" he heard it demand in Sherlock's voice. "Moriarty is just trying to find an excuse to kill you!" John turned to the skull with a calm expression.

"Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you that I don't want to live anymore?"

* * *

><p>And so Moriarty set the rules. John had twelve days. He wasn't allowed to try to hunt down Moriarty, and the countdown began that night. Sherlock would not be harmed if John failed, but John would be killed. And Sherlock would be sent the gruesome proof. For some reason, John didn't care. It was a distraction. So, John bought the over-priced tickets to Florida and invested in over-seas minutes for his phone. When the clock struck twelve-midnight, John received a text.<p>

_ Eleven more days, dear Doctor Watson. -JM_


	2. Chapter 2

Day Two:

The plane landed in the morning, leaving John with a bag full of clothes and supplies in the middle of Georgia with few plans and many ideas. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts. When he finally found the person he was looking for, he grimly pressed the call button. It took a single ring for the man to pick up.

"Hello?" he asked cautiously.

"Hey, Thomas, this is John Watson. We went through training together." There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

"John?" John gave a small sigh. "Are you sure? Maybe you're just pretending to be John. Maybe you've killed him and want to get to me…"

"Thomas, it's me. We used to go out to the pub every Thursday and just talk. You said that you always wanted to find some girl and just quit. Remember?" John remembered briefly the circumstances that got Thomas removed from the military. His erratic and self-destructive behaviour had been diagnosed as Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, but John has always suspected that paranoid schizophrenia played a large role in his discharge, as well.

"What is it, John?" the man asked, suddenly sounding very business-like.

"I'm trying to find a friend. He's been missing…" John tried not to get emotional. He only had eleven days left. He didn't have time for emotions. "And I know that you might be able to help."

"Are you still in London?"

"No, I'm in Atlanta. Georgia. I remembered that you lived somewhere nearby…" There was a groan on the other end of the phone.

"Now they'll find me… If he knows, anyone knows." John quickly backtracked.

"You told me, remember? It's okay. I haven't told anyone else." At that, Thomas sighed.

"Okay. Get a taxi to the Centennial Olympic Park. I'll be the one in the small black car." For a moment, John shook his head, thinking of his past experiences with getting 'kidnapped' by Mycroft in small black cars.

"I'll see you there." John said before hanging up.

* * *

><p>Thomas had changed a lot from what John remembered. He used to have an overwhelming air of confidence, and had been clean-shaven and well-groomed. Now, he had hair that fell down raggedly past his ears, he had a beard, and he hunched over as though he had been beaten; his will to live seemed to be non-existent. He looked at John from the car window with lifeless, panicked eyes.<p>

"Get in!" he hissed quietly. The doctor slipped into the backseat of the car without question. Thomas started the car as quickly as he could and drove away, driving exactly at the speed-limit, no faster, no slower. "So how did your friend go missing? Was he kidnapped?" John paused. He hadn't considered lying yet, but he really didn't want to talk about Sherlock. He had tried that enough with his therapist and, if anything, it only made his leg ache worse and caused his tremors to become more violent.

"He faked his suicide to escape a criminal. And now I can't find him. His brother is getting worried, so he asked me to find him," John lied through his teeth instantly. For some reason, he found that he had no problem with it, either, and he found that concerning. He was always one to tell the truth. That sudden seemed to have changed in him. John was quickly beginning to feel self-conscious. Sherlock would have already figured out everything John was trying to hide, everything he was afraid of and trying to accomplish, and that was the thought the doctor was trying to avoid.

"Hmm… The government, they're trying to find him, aren't they?" Thomas asked, solemnly.

"Yes," John agreed, not entirely lying, but knowing full well that encouraging Thomas' paranoia was unproductive for the man in the long run. John didn't care. He had to find Sherlock. Thomas gave a small laugh and then a scoff.

"Well, I can find anyone, anywhere," he promised.

"That's what I'm betting on." John stopped himself from mentioning that he had bet his life on it. The two sat in silence for an hour, when Thomas pulled off onto a small suburban street and up to a small house. John got out, limping his way up to the door. Thomas noted this and frowned.

"You need a cane," he said.

"I had one. They wouldn't let me take it on the plane. Something about it possibly being a weapon." Thomas shook his head in disgust and held the door open for his old friend.

"I have one somewhere," he offered. After John limped in, Thomas looked around suspiciously and shut the door to the house. John wasn't surprised in the slightest to see that there were weapons all over the house; guns were lying on tables, swords were hung up on the walls, and trip wires were strewn about. Manoeuvring over one of the thin, almost invisible cords, John worked his way into the kitchen to see corkboards covering the room from ceiling to floor. All of them were concealed under hundreds of missing person's reports and notes written in shaky handwriting. Maps, brochures, and news articles were everywhere, completely obscuring the floor. "So, John, what's the name of this friend of yours?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John ignored the crack in his voice. It was stupid. _No emotions_, he reminded himself.

"The fraud-detective?" Thomas asked, sifting through papers immediately. "I heard about that months ago…"

"He was never a fraud!" John almost-yelled sternly. "Richard Brooks was a criminal named Moriarty. He wanted Sherlock out of the way, so he shamed him. Sherlock had to disappear." The words just kept falling from his mouth. He wasn't meaning to say them, but he had never before had to argue Sherlock's situation. He had cut off communication with Lestrade, and Mycroft had generally refused to talk to him until John had called him and learned that he knew they whole story. Molly never asked any questions, and beyond them, John had tried to forget his old life.

"The government," Thomas muttered under his breath. It seemed completely irrelevant to the conversation, but it always seemed like it was the explanation he needed. John adjusted his stance, trying to keep weight off of his bad leg. "Well, I can take this picture of him here…" He pulled out an old newspaper with a headline about Sherlock. "No, no, shut up." John paused, thinking again about his diagnosis of schizophrenia. "No, this one." The man moved over to a scanner across the room and put the newspaper in to be scanned. Then he shot back to a computer beside the sink and began to plug in numbers on the screen. Soon, he had the screen divided into a hundred little flickering images. Curious, John moved closer. When Thomas had been in the army, he was part of a covert surveillance team, so it made sense that he knew how to work with the technology surrounding him.

After a few minutes of the screen violently flicking between millions upon millions of images collected from millions of sources, the movement stuttered to a halt. John's eyes opened wide as several pictures of Sherlock appeared on the screen.

"Costa Rica," Thomas said, pulling up the newest image. John's heart nearly stopped. It was Sherlock. It was really him. He was wearing a thin, grey jacket and jeans. "But, uh, you might not want to go," he said, his expression suddenly very dark.

"Why?" John asked, pulling out his phone to check for the quickest flight to South America.

"Because you're being watched. We all are. And if the government find you're trying to escape, you'll be-"

"Listen, Thomas, you're a great friend, and I thank you very much, but I am not going to stop because of…" He almost said something about fantasies. He put a hand on the taller man's shoulder. "Just let me do this. I have to." Thomas frowned and turned back to the computer. He pulled up the internet and quickly found the next flight to Costa Rica. It left from the Hartsfield-Jackson international airport in a day and a half.

"You can stay here, until you leave," the scraggly man said intently. "But they might come and get you because you know me." With a sigh, John responded,

"It's a risk I'm willing to take."

* * *

><p>The rest of day, John sat in Thomas' house, examining all of the photos, trying to determine exactly what happened after the fall, and exactly how he managed to survive. He called Mycroft once more, only to be directed to voicemail. As night approached, John hardly even noticed. He pulled up files from the government using Thomas' top-of-the-line software, and read them late into the night, trying to decode the mystery before him. At exactly twelve, midnight, John received a text.<p>

_Ten days, Johnny Boy. -JM_


	3. Chapter 3

Day Three:

John sat in the chair, staring at the wall filled with missing persons reports, unmoving. He was wasting time. He needed to be moving, to get something done. But he couldn't. He had a whole day before the next flight. Thomas walked in and looked at John.

"I've got to go out and check on someone. Will you be okay here?" he asked, looking out the window suspiciously. John nodded, ripping his gaze from the wall tiredly.

"Yeah. I'll be fine." Without another word, Thomas simply left. John pulled out his phone on an impulse and, for the millionth time, pulled up Sherlock's contact. If Sherlock was alive, why hadn't he told John? Was something dangerous happening? Had Sherlock forgotten about him? At the last thought, John shook his head. No, Sherlock would never forget about him. John opened the laptop and pulled up the pictures to stare at them. John expected to feel joy at seeing that the man was alive, but all he felt was a hole in himself. There was nothing. No emotion. No hope, no excitement. Just a hole. John scrolled through updates on Sherlock look-a-likes, but none of them were quite him. With an indecisive sigh, John stood up. He started to walk about at a limping pace. He was shaking his head, trying to think of something other than his formerly-dead, former-flatmate.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" he yelled to the air. "You just… left, huh?" He took a moment to steady himself. He knew Sherlock wasn't there. He knew that he was just venting, but… How much further did he have to go until he lost it? He was already empty, hollow. How much longer until he just didn't care about anything? John put his face in his hands and leaned against the wall. A pinging noise came from the computer and John slowly looked up. He hobbled over and pulled up the all the tabs to see what the message had come from. It was John's blog.

"What?" he asked. He had deactivated his blog the week after Sherlock died. Or, the week after he _thought_ Sherlock had died. It was impossible to even be retrieved, and even if it was opened somehow, all the information on it had been deleted. There was a comment without a post. There was no way that could even happen. Intrigued, John clicked the comment to read more of it.

_I recommend you give up, dear Doctor Watson. You aren't going to like what you will find in Costa Rica. JM_

John blinked. He just stared at the words without question. He knew that he should have expected Moriarty to be informed his every move somehow. And of course, Moriarty would try to discourage him. John was sure the psychopath would love nothing more than to kill him, even if just to get back at Sherlock for being alive.

"No." John said to the computer. "I will never give up on him." With that, he slammed the computer shut and walked away from it as fast as he could.

* * *

><p>When Tomas came back, John was fitfully sleeping on the couch. The man was curled on his side, twitching violently. Thomas walked over.<p>

"John?" he asked, shaking him slightly. Without waking, John punched the man and yelled something incoherent. Thomas pulled away, holding his bleeding nose. "John!" John opened his eyes quickly and glanced around suspiciously for a minute.

"What happened?" he asked to Thomas, looking at the blood coming from his hands.

"You punched me!" Thomas said, getting to his feet. "You were having a nightmare it looked like." With that, he turned around and started to walk into the kitchen. John followed.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking at the clock on the wall. "It's six?"

"Yeah," Thomas said unhappily, grabbing a wad of paper towels and putting them to his nose. "Next time don't punch me." He looked at the wall and then pulled down a poster.

"So…?" John asked as Thomas threw it into the corner after crumpling it up.

"She was raped and killed. I found her body in a drainage ditch two miles from her house." Thomas shook his head and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out two bottles of beer and handed one to John.

"I thought you didn't drink," John said as Thomas fiddled around to find the bottle opener. When he finally did manage to discover it, he turned back to John with a frown.

"This is third one in a row I've found dead. All of them used to work for the government…" John simply nodded instead of asking how that had anything to do with anything. John downed his quickly, hoping to erase the memories of the nightmare.

_He had become Moriarty. He began organising the deaths of people who deserved it. A murderer he had stumbled upon, a thief who stole from an old woman. But soon, he had spiralled. He was hiring other people to commit the murders. He started having houses of rapists burned down. He was killing children to make a point against violence. He was twisted, and he didn't care. He had revelled in it._

And now John wanted to forget that he had ever dreamt such a thing. He wanted to believe that he could still be good.

"What was it you punched me over?" Thomas asked, handing John another beer.

"Nothing," he lied, opening it and starting to drink it.

"More about the war?" Thomas asked. John nodded quickly. The other man didn't need to know anything else about him. "Well, the ticket was finalised. You can head off tomorrow morning. I'll drive you, but you'll have to walk for a while. I've heard that there are cameras with facial recognition software programmed to alert the government when there are people on their watch lists who enter the building."

"And?" John asked, finishing the second bottle.

"And I'm on their watch lists. They think that I'm going to tell the world about how they kill their own workers to prevent secrets from getting leaked." Thomas lowered his voice. "They're slowly killing every retired member of their Congress." John shook his head.

"Why go through all that trouble?" he asked, glad to notice that he didn't feel so hollow anymore.

"That's the question," Thomas whispered, moving closer to John. "What are they trying to cover up that is so big? Is it aliens? Or is there an international conspiracy going on that they don't want citizens to know about?" He pointed to the walls covered in papers. "What does all this mean?"

"People go missing all the time," John noted distantly.

"But why?" Thomas asked loudly.

"Because they have to."

"Exactly." As Thomas started to ramble more, John walked away, thinking about what he had just said. Sherlock had to disappear. That was the only explanation, and he had to accept that. He walked back to the couch slowly and closed his eyes. He slept well until his phone went off at midnight.

_He hasn't said anything to you for a reason. –JM _


	4. Chapter 4

_Day Four: _

Eight more days. A little over one week. That was all that John Watson had left to find his best friend before he lost his life to a raging psychopathic killer. And oddly enough, he didn't care.

As he sat in the car with Thomas on the way to the airport, sipping his morning cuppa in a to-go mug, he simply sighed and let the feeling of completely apathy wash over him. He wanted to find Sherlock more than anything, yes, but for some odd reason, he didn't care that his life was at stake. As they reached the airport, Thomas dropped John off a safe distance away from security cameras. John walked for the next mile and a half to reach the building itself. His bad leg was cramping up, but he ignored it as he entered the line for the flight check-in. Without hassle, he made his way onto the plane for the three hour flight. He sat down in his empty seat and pulled out his phone. There were no new messages from anyone other than Mycroft, asking where he was. John deleted the message with the thought of, _You are not my mother,_ and began to scroll through older texts. A woman about Sherlock's age sat next to him.

"Hello," she said, cheerfully. Her accent was thoroughly American. John glanced up from his phone and looked at her. She had long, curled, blonde hair. She was wearing a thin camisole undershirt with a plaid t-shirt over it. Her shorts were a little too short to be modest. Her hair was mussed around the sides, implying that she hugged or snogged someone before getting on the plane. Her ring finger was bare, but she had a travel-label on her bag identifying her as a 'Missus.'

"Your boyfriend, was it?" John asked curiously.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, obviously startled. She defensively moved to cover her left hand. John supressed a smile. He had been right.

"Well, you just looked happy. I was wondering if you had been talking to your boyfriend before you boarded." The woman hesitated before nodded.

"Uh… Yeah…" With that, she awkwardly pulled out her phone and scrolled through her texts. The majority of them were from a man named Paul. Obviously not her husband from the way the texts were worded. John raised an eyebrow at a racier one before returning his attention back to his phone. It was vibrating. He had a new message.

_Where are you? -MH_

With an agitated sigh, John deleted it. The woman looked over and raised a delicately shaped eyebrow. "Family?" she asked sympathetically.

"No," John replied shortly. "My friend's brother." Not caring to give anymore explanation, he looked out the window at another plane being loaded.

"So… Are you from England or something?"

"London."

"Oh. Cool. I used to live there. And I had a friend who went to school there for a while…" After a long pause, she shrugged. "So, I guess you don't talk much…" For some reason, this struck John as odd. He had always been a talker. He was even told, both during his time in the military, and by Sherlock, that he talked in his sleep when he was still at 221B with the man. "You notice a lot, too." She gave a nervous chuckle, a dead-give away of her previously attempted deflection. John frowned further. He didn't notice a lot. That was Sherlock's job. He was just supposed to stand beside the man and praise him. He may have picked up a few tricks, but he definitely was not a consulting detective by any means.

"I'm not…" John tried to find what he wanted to say. He wasn't observant. He wasn't quiet. And he definitely wasn't Sherlock.

"It's okay!" she insisted, pulling out a book from her large bag. "I'll stop now."

There would have been a time, three years previous, where John would have tried to reassure her that she was fine, that he loved to talk. Afterwards, he might have even gotten her number and seen if she was free eventually. But those three years had changed him. And she was no longer interesting. The pilot came over the intercom, giving information about the flight as flight attendants demonstrated what to do in case of emergency.

"If you are physically unable to open the latches on one of the emergency exits…." John looked up to see that the flight attendant was looked directly at him and the cane that was under his feet on the floor.

"It's not…. I am not disabled!" John argued to her. As the flight attendant went back to pantomime panic-positions, the woman sitting next to him turned to him with a sorrowful expression.

"A veteran?" John sighed and shook his head. "Pakistan or Iraq?" Those words startled John.

"Afghanistan," he corrected softly, waiting for the demonstration to be over.

"Oh. Sorry." She turned back to her book as the safety explanation was over. The women sat back down, and the plane began to move out of its loading position. "I don't think I introduced myself, did I? I'm Mary. Mary Morstan." John held out a hand for her to shake.

"John Watson." She smiled brightly.

"You know, I used to spend my summers in London. My dad lived there." John gave a disinterested nod in her general direction.

The three hour flight could only be described as tedious. John tried as hard as he could to humour the genuinely nice woman, but after hour two, he simply pulled out one of the magazines in the pocket on the chair in front of him and began to read through it. When they reached the airport at Costa Rica, John smiled. Not only was he free from further obligatory social interaction with the woman, but he was close to finding Sherlock.

"Would you like me to help with your bags?" Mary asked politely with a glance to John's cane.

"I don't have any bags." John manoeuvred out into the aisle. He slowly made his way off the plane through the crowds of people. As he walked into the airport, he was assaulted by all the sights and smells of a foreign place. Several people pushed past him as he limped to the exit. He didn't know where exactly to go. He had about week to go through crowds. He glanced out a window to see that the sun was starting to climb into the sky. At that, he paused. Did this mean that he had more time to find Sherlock since he had changed time-zones so drastically? He talked to the woman at the rental car desk and got a small, cheap piece of junk. It took him a while to find it after taking the bus to the rental car facility, but when he did, he smiled at the irony. It was a basic, black car. And it looked like a considerably more run-down version of what Mycroft often rode in.

"Hey!" Mary called, running over to John with an impish grin. "Turns out that my credit card's invalid, so… I don't have a car. Would you mind if I hitched a ride with you? I'll pay once I meet up with my husband… or find an ATM." John looked to the car and then to the woman. "Please?" For a moment, John smiled to her warmly and motioned to the other side.

"Sure," he said in a manner he would have years ago. Mary's eyes lit up and she hugged John. After kissing his cheek, she jumped into the passenger's seat, throwing her bags behind her. John took a moment to consider what needed to be done. His first priority was finding Sherlock, but he also had to take care of Mary. John got in and started the car, taking a moment to note that he would technically be driving on the wrong side of the road.

"Do you, uh, want me to drive? I mean, with your leg and all." Even though she offered in an entirely kind way, John felt as though it was an insult aimed at him and his 'disability.'

"I can drive," he responded shortly, backing out carefully. Mary nodded and began to look at the scenery.

"So what are you here for?" she asked amiably.

"To find a friend. He's missing." John pulled out onto the road leading from the facility, unsure of where he was driving to.

"I'm sorry!" Mary quickly backtracked. "I didn't mean to bring it up if…" John cut her off to prevent her giving him any more pity.

"And why are you here?"

"Oh! My husband's on a work trip here and I came to visit him. His name's John, too. Isn't that funny?" She laughed softly. "He works as a journalist, so he travels a lot," she continued to elaborate. John was planning on tuning her out, when he thought of an idea.

"I may need your husband's help." John said abruptly. "I know that my friend is somewhere in Costa Rica, but I don't know where. Do you think he could help me narrow down the location?

"I… don't know. Maybe? I would love to help you!" John took his eyes off of the road for a minute to smile brightly at her.

"Thank you, Mary."

For the next hour, he drove around, trying to find a place to stop and figure everything out in. He finally found a small, Americanised coffee shop. He stopped, bought Mary some ridiculously expensive drink, and sat down to talk with her. He determined that, first of all, she was definitely having an affair. Second, he found that her husband was not far away, maybe an hour's drive. Also, Mary seemed to be more than happy to simply spend time with John, and not go back to her husband any time soon.

After receiving instructions to the hotel that Mr Morstan was staying at, John herded her out of the coffee shop and back into the car. He dropped her off at the hotel and booked himself a room there, since Mary insisted. She even called her husband and had him pay for it. She hugged John once again and thanked him profusely.

It wasn't until three hours later that the next text from Moriarty came.

_Seven more days. And you will still be on London time. -JM_

_AN: Sorry about the huge delay, marching band is starting up and it will only get worse from here. Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Day Five:_

John woke up at the crack of dawn and simply lay in his bed, thoughts reeling sleepily. His leg was driving him more and more insane with every second that he lay still. It felt as though it was slowly atrophying with each tick of the ancient clock across the room. Finally, he decided to stand up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He looked at the notepad on the table beside the mattress. Mary's number was scrawled across it in her sloped, swirly hand-writing. John knew that Sherlock would have immediately said that she required constant attention and that she was a serial-cheater. To rip him out of his thoughts, there was a knock on the door.

"John? It's me, Mary!" With a small sigh, the doctor stood up and pulled on a pair of shorts that he had gotten the day before. He opened the door to see the blonde beaming at him, and her husband standing behind her quietly. She was wearing a very revealing tank-top and shorts that came down to her mid-thigh. She pulled her husband into the room, smiling brilliantly at John.

"Good morning," Mr Morstan said to the other man, glancing away from his wife for just a moment to size up what he assumed to be his competition.

"Uh, yeah. Good morning." Mary walked over and looked out the window of the room.

"Wow! You have a nice view!" she commented. John simply shrugged. If he was being honest, he hadn't even looked at anything beyond the bed. Once he got the room, he had sent Mary off to see her husband, and he walked around, trying to find clues about Sherlock. After several hours of hearing nothing of ay interest, it was midnight, and John trekked back to the hotel and simply collapsed into the bed in nothing other than his t-shirt and his pants.

"I hear you're from Britain," Mr Morstan said, awkwardly trying to start a conversation.

"London," John specified, moving over the bed and starting to make it out of habit. He had done it as a kid, he had done it in the army, he did it at 221B, and habit dictated that he would continue to make his bed anywhere else.

"Oh, so the same as Mary?" At her name, the woman spun around and nodded.

"So, Dominick, I told you that John needed some help, didn't I?" The man raised an eyebrow and looked to the doctor.

"Look, you don't need to go out of your way to do anything for me, really," John protested, sounding more like his old self than he had in months.

"Oh, but we do! You helped me so much. It's only fair that we return to the favour. Right, Dominick?" Her husband looked torn. Half of him wanted to simply say goodbye to the man across the room who was fumbling with a cane and head out with his wife. He had already paid for the man's room, which hadn't been cheap in the first place, so he felt that he didn't owe the man anything more. But, in the same way that he wanted to be rid of him, Mary seemed to be quite attached. He didn't want to push her away at all.  
>"Of course, Love," he conceded with a small smile in John's general direction. "What is it that you need?"<br>"My… friend, Sherlock Holmes, disappeared a while back. I got a tip that he was here, in Costa Rice. I don't know if there is any way you could find him without attracting too much attention." It had occurred to John that maybe Sherlock didn't want to be found, so he figured that stealth was the key to pinning him down.

"I could send out a missing person's report," Dominick offered hollowly, already imagining how much trouble his wife had gotten him in.

"No, that's too much. Could you just do some interviews and maybe check around?" After a moment, John added, "You don't have to if it's too inconvenient." At that, Mary shook her head vehemently and walked over to her husband.

"If you don't mind, I would like to-" Just as the man was trying to worm his way out of the situation, Mary whispered something into his ear. The man paled slightly and stiffly inclined his head to John. "Of course I can. It would be a pleasure." Intrigued, John analysed her behaviour. She was controlling, manipulative, and by the looks of it, he knew that she was a cheater. It only took John a moment to decide.

"Thank you both." John said, picking up a small backpack off of the floor. He had bought that, too, to carry any information he got on Sherlock Holmes, along with his necessary supplies- a razor, an extra pair of clothes, the rest of his money, and a toothbrush.

"It's no problem! Say, Dominick, while you're interviewing today, I'll help John find his friend!" Neither man quite seemed thrilled at the idea.

"If you want to…" John said after failing to ignore her hopeful gaze. "But I'm not very good company…" Mary dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

"Don't be silly. You're fantastic!" After an awkward moment of silence, Dominick cleared his throat.  
>"Well, I'm going to start working. John, take care of Mary. And have fun, dear." At that, he walked out of the room, shaking his head at the whole situation.<p>

"So, where should we start?" Mary asked, moving back to look out the window. "I've heard that people get kidnapped around here all the time. Do you think that your friend is okay?"

"He can take care of himself," John said hollowly. He had heard stories of Sherlock's martial artistry, but he had never seen it himself. After a moment, panic struck John. What if something really had happened to his friend? Mary looked at John, concernedly.

"You're a little white…" she murmured, looking around for a glass of water. Clutching his cane tighter, John shook his head.

"I'm fine, Mary. Let's go." He left the room at a pace faster than he had ever expected to travel again with such a bad limp.

"So I take it you have an idea or two?" she asked, following him and shutting the door.

"One or two…"

~~~  
>John looked at the man across from him. Mary was sitting at a table nearby, sipping a small coffee, pretending to watch the TV playing Spanish at the other end of the restaurant. The man across from the doctor had a thick, untrimmed beard. It was stained and obviously unkempt. His hair was in the same state. His shirt was tattered and his arms were laced with injection marks around a prominent blue vein. When John first found the man, it only took him a minute to identify his drug of choice- heroine, and where he had gotten it from- a higher-up in a drug trade ring.<p>

"I need some information," John said, reaching into his backpack. "On a man who went missing." The bearded man simply stared forward and scratched his neck. "He went by the name of Sherlock Holmes." At that, the man's eyebrow twitched and his eyes darted to the street. "I'm sure that you would have remembered him if you met him. He is tall, likes to wear coats, and he has no manners."

"Much like you," the man noted in a heavy accent.

"So you knew him." John had deduced that minutes ago. For a moment, he understood Sherlock's frustration with the average populace. How did they not notice the things that went on, so blatantly, around them every day?

"No." He couldn't say that he hadn't been expecting such a response. John pulled out a twenty from his wallet, almost wincing at the loss of so much of his money.  
>"Are you sure?" The man looked at the small sum and scoffed. He moved to stand up.<p>

"I do not need to listen to this." John shrugged and then dug further into the bag for something he had pick-pocketed from a man on the street.  
>"You're detoxing. I can tell. You have tremors and your eyes are bloodshot. I'm sure that you know what I'm holding right now." The man's eyes suddenly were glued to the small plastic bag that John was holding. Without so much as blinking, the bearded druggy sat back down like an obedient and hungry dog.<p>

"What do you want to know?" he asked, desperation in his gaze.

"I need to know everything you know about Sherlock Holmes. And I will know if you leave anything out. I'm not stupid like most of the people you deal with." This decision took the man a moment longer.

"I saw him a few months ago. He asked about someone I knew who'd been murdered downtown. He talked to me, shoved me into a wall, and made me tell my side of the story. I saw that they caught the guy who'd killed the girl. But that was weeks after that man talked to me. And he already knew who the killer was when we were talking. I saw it in his eyes." John smiled triumphantly, feeling that he was slowly crawling closer and closer to his goals.

"And what else?" John asked when he realised that there was something else that the man was going to say.

"He confiscated all of my best. And a few needles, too." At that point, the man was almost whining. The doctor stiffened.

"Do you think that he used them?"

"Yes," the man said without any hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, mind starting to reel again.

"I know when I meet one of my own." There was a pause before John slowly handed over the drugs. The man tucked them into his jacket and ran out of the small café quickly.

John sat in the hotel room next to Mary. There was a bottle of wine between them; she had paid for it, and she was more drunk than he ever planned to be again.

"So…" She started moving her glass around in a circle. "You were doctor… I always thought that doctors were the most interesting. They're always so… smart. Smart is sexy." John physically twitched at her last sentence. It reminded him of the Woman. And he had been drinking to forget about Sherlock, not to have him brought up more. Mary bolted up and held a hand out to John.

"What are you doing?" he asked, staring at her with raised eyebrows.

"We're dancing," she announced, pulling him out of his seat and then setting her wine glass down. Surprised, John stumbled around slightly so her arms were around his neck and he was holding her waist.

"Mary," he tried to object, "You're married."

"But you're not," she argued, starting to move her feet to an imaginary song clumsily.

"I'm married to my work." Mary giggled and moved so that she was standing a little closer to John.

"You're an odd one, you know."

John saw it coming a mile away, and for some reason, he didn't try to stop it. Mary finished their dance after a few minutes and looked into John's eyes, suddenly serious. She mumbled something about the weather before using her hold on John's neck to pull him into a kiss. At first, John simply stood there, shocked. He had expected her to pull back and pretend to be ashamed or just laugh it off after a moment, but her lips were moving insistently against his own.

"Mary," he tried to argue, but it came out as a breathy whisper.

"Shh," Mary dropped her hands and started to manoeuvre them under the doctor's shirt when the sound of a phone vibrating startled them both. Mary yanked her hands away and John's hands shot down to his pockets to pull out the cell phone. He pulled up his one new message.

_Ah, ah. Hands off, Doctor Watson. Keep your eyes on the prize. -JM_

_AN: Sorry about the delay in updating! Finals are a bitch._


	6. Chapter 6

_Day Six:_

John woke up with his thoughts immediately revolving around Sherlock. His dream had involved Sherlock's death. He found him unconscious on the benches nearby the hotel, dying of a drug overdose. By the time John had driven him to the hospital, Sherlock was dead, and that was when the doctor woke up in a cold sweat. He rolled over onto his side and checked his phone. There were three messages from Mycroft and one from Mary. The first one from Mycroft was informing John that he was to return to London before Mycroft sent his men after John. After reading the first one, he deleted the next three. The text from Mary was asking him to meet her and her husband at a coffee shop for breakfast.

At that, he rolled out of bed, holding in a groan as pain shot through his body from his leg. He changed into suitable clothes and walked into the bathroom, looking at his hair. It was starting to grey at the roots. John had never been a very vain man. He put product in his hair to make it look better, yes, but it was simply out of habit. He had done it once to spruce up, and he had done it ever since. Of course, it was annoying to him that he was greying. It showed that he was old, something that he feared and rejoiced in. He had always been afraid to die in Afghanistan, and he dreamed of living past the war. And now that he had survived, he made the decision that he did not want to grow old and die. That was something he decided long ago, when he was still chasing down criminals with Sherlock.

And those grey hairs sent a twinge of panic through him. He was going to die old and senile and boring. He was going to be boring. That was his newest and greatest fear. John turned away from the mirror, as though it would help him to forget if he did not see the change in colours. He walked out of the room after using the bathroom and grabbing his cane and his backpack. He took the elevator down to the lobby before hobbling out in the streets. The coffee shop was not far away, so John took his time getting there in an attempt to lessen the throbbing of his muscles When he walked in, the first thing he noticed was Dominick's gloomy expression. John sat down with a nod to the couple.

"Good morning," John said to Dominick, not able to meet Mary's expectant gaze.

"I'm sorry, John, but I have some bad news for you," the journalist said, pushing a cup of coffee towards John. "I found some information on your friend, Sherlock." At that, John's interest was piqued.

"And what?" he asked, heart beginning to race.

"The last records from him were a set of hospital discharges…" John blinked and looked between the two of them for something he was obviously missing.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Well, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer." For a moment, time froze for John. All of his thoughts seemed to wheel about his head in slow motion, and the rest of the world was quiet, as though had been muted.

"What?" he asked, speaking slowly as though he had an impediment.

"They said he had two more years to live, because it's inoperable. So he checked out, and that was the last thing we have recorded of his existence." That was when John's slowly paced thoughts shot into overdrive. Had Sherlock committed suicide to avoid a slow death? Had he found his own cure? John assumed he was smart enough to do it if he put his mind to it. Was this something Mycroft had known all along? And most importantly, was it something that Moriarty had known all along?

"John?" Mary asked, concernedly. John shook his head to clear his thoughts and took a slow sip from his cup.

"I'm fine," he assured emptily. "I'm sure that Sherlock is okay. He always is." At that, he went to stand up, but his leg gave out from under him.

"Why don't you just sit down?" Mary offered, standing up and trying to ease John into sitting back down. Dominick pulled out his phone and sighed.

"I'm sorry, John, but I'm sure that he's either dying or dead. Look, I have a meeting that I have to be in. My condolences." He stood up and looked at Mary. "Come on," he offered to her.

"I'm going to stay and make sure that Dr Watson is okay. You can go ahead, love." Dominick frowned deeply and shook his head.

"I'm sure that Dr Watson can handle himself. He is a grown man. Why don't you find something new to do today, Mary?" The woman shook her head vigorously.

"No. John needs my help."

"No, he doesn't. Come on, Mary, we're leaving." The woman glared at her husband and shook her head again. She took his hand off of her arm where it had migrated.

"You can go and do your work, but I will stay here and help John with what I can. So go!" Grudgingly, Dominick turned on his heel and left the building quickly.

* * *

><p>John was sitting on one of the cleaner beaches in Costa Rica, trying to remain as far away from Mary as was possible. The previous night's kiss had thrown him off guard. He knew that she was a cheater the moment he met her, but this was something he definitely had not been expecting. And she seemed to be completely content to dote on him while thinly veiling her attraction to him.<p>

"You seemed very close to this Sherlock man," she noted, trying to break the heavy silence that had fallen between the two of them. "How long did you know him?"

"Quit talking about him like he's dead!" John demanded, turning to shake his head at her. "Sherlock is alive and well." He knew that he was deluding himself, but he didn't care.

"There's no need to lie to yourself," she said, putting a hand on his leg. To an outsider, it would have simply looked like she was comforting a friend, but John saw the hidden intent in her eyes.

"Mary, please move your hand off of me. You're married to Dominick." His thoughts quickly returned to the kiss. Mary pulled her hand off of him, her expression darkening.

"You knew all along I was cheating on him!" she accused. "And yet you still spent time with me. It was like you were asking me to be with you. What was I supposed to think?" She lowered her tone, sounding hurt. "I like you, John. I like you a lot." The admission seemed genuine, but he was still dubious. He stood up and looked at her, frowning.

"I have to find Sherlock. I will not return your affections, but I would still like your help and your husband's help." He felt that he was asking for trouble, allowing her to stay with him, but he was sure that he didn't have much of a choice. His life was on the line and he had already passed the half-way mark. He needed to find Sherlock as quickly as he could, and he needed all the help he could get. Mary stood up and held a hand out to John.

"I understand. I'll work with you. And I'll stop… showing affection." John shook the hand, positive that this was still a bad idea.

"Thank you, Mary."

* * *

><p>That night, the text message arrived as usual.<p>

_Time's almost up, Doctor Watson. –JM_

John wasn't sure if Moriarty was meaning for Sherlock, for him, or for some third thing that he wasn't yet aware of. He deleted the message and turned his phone off before heading to bed for the night.

_AN: For those of you who are a little confused about Mary's significance: in the original Sherlock stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, she was John's wife whom he marries during the years he thinks Sherlock is dead. I decided to change this up a little, so I changed her role in John's life slightly._


	7. Chapter 7

_Day Seven:_

All the leads were gone. No one had any idea on who Sherlock Holmes even was. Nor did John even find someone fitting the description of a tall, pale man with black curly hair who liked to wear long coats and play violin at the ungodly hour of three in the morning. If John hadn't been convinced otherwise by Moriarty, he would have said that his former flatmate was dead and gone. But John couldn't afford thinking like that. He needed to find Sherlock. He needed to keep his life from falling into the hands of the man who wanted to kill him so badly.

In the midst of his turmoil, he had taken to the streets to clear his mind. The cool, moist air did quite the opposite of what he intended them to do. At every turn, he saw another man who could be Sherlock. Every sound in an alleyway was an assassin sent by Moriarty to make sure he never finished his job. At that thought, he shuddered. The situation was bad enough. He at least wanted to attempt to do something with the possible last few nights of his life. He had five days. And that wasn't enough. It had taken him seven to get this far, and he had found nothing but one lead that he refused to believe. Sherlock must have faked the hospital results to shake off anyone who was following him.

"Sir," a young child said, approaching him from the shadows, "d'ya 'ave some spare monies?" The boy's English was shaky at best, and his clothes were shredded and gubby looking. John planned on immediately turning him away, rebuffing him before an issue was created. And then something struck him- Sherlock's homeless network had always served him well. This was a route that John had not truly explored yet, and he was desperate. John handed him a twenty dollar bill and knelt down.  
>"I need you to do a job for me," John said slowly, noting that the kid looked and acted to be a street-smart child. "Can you keep an ear out for a man named Sherlock Holmes? If you hear anything about him that I can use, I have more money. I'll be here tomorrow night if you find something." John was sure that Sherlock's agreement with his homeless network had been nonverbal, but John didn't have much idea of what he was doing.<p>

"Sherluk Homes," the boy parroted back, a slow grin spreading across his face before he scampered off. John remained still as he watched the shadows after him. It wasn't till he started walking again until he realised something. He slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead with a groan.

"Shit!" he hissed. Sherlock probably would not have used his name normally. He should have told the boy about the formerly-dead man's appearance. That would have been far more productive. _But_, a small voice of reason in the back of his head argued. _He's always been vain. Maybe he kept his name. Maybe he still wants to be known for who he is and what he does_. It was a fine idea, but John struggled to actually hope for results. He didn't dare try to achieve something that he could not yet see in sight.

* * *

><p>Mary had caught up with John for lunch. She missed nothing about his appearance. His eyes were blood-shoot, the bags under his eyes were prominent, and his lips were pressed into a tight and impatient line.<p>

"No news, then, I take it?" The only response she received was a terse nod, and then a shrug.

"I don't know what I expected," he bemoaned, taking a sip of water from the questionably clean glass in front of him. "Sherlock was a master of disguise. There's a change I might not even recognise him if I saw him now…" That thought obviously struck John as horrifying.  
>"I'm sorry," Mary offered, stirring the straw in her glass. She had ordered one of the restaurant's signature sangrias and was enjoying it highly. She was mentally running through how much money her husband had given her and ended up deciding to order a second if they stayed long enough.<p>

"So am I." John shoved his backpack onto his lap and pulled out some pictures that Thomas had sent him over the computer early in the morning. After that, John was grateful that he brought his blogging-laptop with him after all. He had originally debated bringing it, but, so far, it had been a wise choice to take it, even if it only meant some pictures of atrocious quality. He had printed the photos off at a small Americanised office-supply store. They were grainy and vague at best, but they were better than nothing. They proved that Sherlock was indeed still alive. That lifted a weight off of his shoulders.

"What are those? Leads?" John shook his head and tossed the pictures carelessly onto the table. She scanned them over and furrowed her eyebrows. "Pictures? Those are leads, right?"

"No," John lamented. "I know he's alive. I've known that this whole time. Otherwise, I would not have been searching for him. This simply shows that nothing horrible has happened to him since I last saw pictures of him." Mary pulled one closer to her and studied it intently. She would hardly have even guessed it was a human, had she not known better. She saw the curly, black hair and assumed that that was how he'd been identified, since there were hardly any distinguishable facial features other than prominent cheekbones.  
>"Well, he's alive, and he's here. I'm sure we'll find him eventually. I mean, if you tail him long enough, you'll find him eventually, right?" She received no response. During the awkward silence that ensued, she held a finger up and caught the attention of a waiter. She ordered another drink and then settled back into her chair. "What?" she demanded, seeing how glum John was.<p>

"I'm on a time-restriction," he admitted slowly and ambiguously. "I only have five more days…"

"Running out of PTO days?" she asked, not intending to be unkind. At that, John gave a humourlessly grim smile.

"I guess you could put it like that…" She didn't seem to catch any of the following emotions that sprang across his face- fear, anxiety, frustration, and disappointment, so she continued sipping on her drink, blissfully ignorant. John gathered the photos back up, this time gingerly, as though they were more precious than gold. He looked in his bag and found that he was still nearing the end of his line, money-wise, but he also noticed something else strange. There was more money than there had been last night in the plastic bag where he'd been storing it. Accusingly, he looked up at the woman across the table from him.

"What?" she asked, noticing his change in behaviour.

"You put more money in here," he accused. She shrugged and stood up quickly. "The next sangria's for you. I have to leave. Dominick wants me to sight-see with him." Then, something struck John as incredibly odd.

"You lied!"

"What?" she demanded, raising her eyebrows as though John had suddenly lost his sanity. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"When we were renting a car when I first got here, you said that your husband's name was John, too. You said that." Mary paused and hesitated.  
>"No, I said his name was Dominick. You're losing it; you need more sleep," she tried to reassure him, but John couldn't deny the sudden memory that had popped up in his mind. Before he could argue, she rushed out of the restaurant, forgetting her mobile on the table where it had been sitting since they first arrived. John furrowed his eyebrows. She had said it, he was sure of it. But why had she lied? Suspicious, John slowly reached for the phone in front of him. It beeped the second before his hand could touch it. He grabbed it and unlocked the screen to see a new message from a sender with the name "M." John's heart sank as he opened the message.<p>

-I should have mentioned to never trust anyone.-

John sat there, staring at the message for a good minute before slamming the mobile back on the table. He started a young woman sitting next to him when he gathered the rest of his stuff together and jammed the chair back into the table with a loud bang.  
>"Damn Moriarty!" he hissed to himself when he stepped outside of the restaurant.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

_Day Eight:_

The money. There always seemed to be more money coming from Mary. And John didn't trust that. She seemed kind, innocent… and yet he knew better than to trust her now. He had made many mistakes in his life, and he was not about to make another one.

"That man, there, look at him," someone whispered from behind John. The ex-soldier turned around quickly and glanced around for who had spoken. A woman was furrowing her brows, muttering gently to a man that John assumed to be her husband. She was tall with a slim figure; her large hazel eyes were locked on John.

"Can I help you?" John asked tersely.

"Are you Dr John Watson?" she asked, stepping away from her husband and pulling her purse off of her shoulder. John nodded, raising his eyebrows and reaching for a gun that was not strapped to his waist. Another woman he couldn't trust, another threat... That was all he saw in her. His soldier's instincts kicked in easily.

Her 'husband'- he doubted the title now after seeing the way they stood around each other- was strong, obviously. Under his tight t-shirt his muscles bulged. The way the man carried himself proved he was dangerous- he held himself forward, aggressively, and his hands were held tightly behind him, a soldier's stance. He had a large scar tracing from his forehead, over one of his eyes, and across his cheek. John did not like the look of him. Or the woman either. She was deceivingly helpless-looking, with her carefully curled hair and her nails unpolished, but carefully trimmed.

"Yes," he said, watching them both intently.

"My boss told me to give you a little something." She pulled out package from her purse. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. John took it, glaring her down the whole time.

"What is it?" he asked, not sparing a glance at it.

"It's a little gift, don't question it." Her smile was gone, replaced by a hollow, toothy grin. She was not longer comely, but predatory. "Come along, Basher," she said to the man, taking his arm and shrugging her purse back onto her shoulder.

John watched as the two left. He knew that Moriarty had sent them; he knew that he was being baited. He didn't care. He opened the bag with trepidation, half-expecting it to be dangerous or worse, a note mocking his failed attempts to locate the consulting detective.

Instead, there was a single syringe inside of the bag. It was not filled with anything, and it seemed to have been entirely unused. John looked up quickly.

He was about to call out, to demand that the two explain what the syringe meant, but the man and woman were gone. There was no one around, though. The two had disappeared into thin air, it seemed. John clenched his free hand into a fist and snarled to himself. _Damn Moriarty_, he thought, raging internally. He couldn't trust anyone. He pulled his backpack off of his shoulders and put the package into it. John stared ahead at the way the 'couple' had left, shaking his head at himself angrily.

* * *

><p>The child scampered around quickly, listening and seeing too much. He had small eyes that made him looked much like a mouse and small hands that made their way into pockets with ease. He had a grimy twenty dollar bill clutched in his hands as he darted about, watching for tourists who weren't paying close attention to their wallets and purses. Within minutes, he had a wallet and another twenty dollar bill, but he looked unhappy. His eyes were darting around, looking for a specific person.<p>

He was listening too, listening carefully. There were at least six different languages flying around, but the boy was not concerned about it all that much; he was listening for a name. He had been paid to find Sherlock Holmes, and he was intent on doing so. There were people everywhere, noises everywhere, but the child was used to it.

He ran through back-streets and alleyways, past restaurants and bars, around animals and homes, completely unnoticed. He was an urchin, a nobody. Tourists pities him, locals sneered at him… He was a nobody, and the alleyways were his home. The alleyways were where he heard the name. The name was so strange, so foreign.

A woman was speaking it, purring it. She had a plastic bag in her hand and was talking to someone around a corner. The small boy moved, trying to get a look at the person she was addressing, but didn't see more than a shadow. A tall shadow. The woman held out the bag, raising her eyebrows. "I brought you your supplies, Mr Holmes, I hope you're okay with it." A gloved hand took the bag. In a British accent, the man replied,

"Yes, it'll do. Thank you, Clarice." The man then disappeared into the shadows. The boy retreated backward, hoping that the woman would not come his way. There was no sound in the night other than the chirping of cicadas and the crunching sound of boots from the deserted main road. The boy watched a man in a jacket began walking away, sweeping into the night at a quick pace.

The boy knew what he had to do. He had to find the man that gave him the money. He had found Sherlock Holmes. He walked through the night, not even thinking about what was going on around him. He was aware, yes, but he knew the area so well that he hardly even had to spare time to consider what was going on around him. The hotel near where he had met the short Englishman was in the tourist district, not too far from where he was.

The lights were actually turned on around the hotels in an attempt to make the city look safer. The boy enjoyed the area because the newcomers were so comfortable where they thought they were safe. They looked away from their children and their money, thinking that all would be okay. The boy knew better. The tourist district was one of the worst places to be simply because tourists were so clueless and thoroughly convinced that they were untouchable.

And standing outside a hotel, wearing a sweater in a conglomerate of ungodly colours was the man that had given the boy the money. The boy walked up to him, glancing around warily for others.  
>"You came back," John noticed, surprised. The boy nodded and pulled out the twenty dollar bill.<p>

"Worth a lot," he said. "Found Sherluck. Traded bag with women. Left quick. Sherluck knows streets better than Luca."

"Luca?" John asked, bending down so he was more at the kid's level. The child pointed to himself. "Oh, Luca… Can you tell me where Sherlock and the other people were?"  
>"One person. One women. At Tahavra Avenue." John's expression softened. The boy in front of him was dirty, scrawny, and ill fed.<p>

"Luca, would you like to spend the night in a hotel room? It's a little nasty, but it's cheap. I can get you a room." The boy shook his head and jerked a thumb back towards where he came.

"Jennay waiting." The boy made his arms into a cradle and rocked them, trying to emphasise that Jennay was a small child. He had forgotten the English word for baby. John tapped his finger against his cane. After a moment of contemplation, he reached into his pocket where he had put an energy bar.

Luca jumped away, expecting a weapon or an attack. He had learned long ago that people would use him without issue. Instead, though, he was given food. He looked up at John in amazement and nodded his head.

"I keep looking for Sherluck," he promised. The boy darted away as quickly as he came, using the shadows to hide himself expertly. John simply stared after him. For the first time since he arrived, he had actually learned something truly useful.

When his phone buzzed, John was not surprised. When he read the message, he was not surprised. When a similar feeling of anxiety settled into the pit of his stomach, he was not surprised.

_My, oh, my. I was told by my sniper and my informant that you didn't understand my gift. Pity. -JM_


	9. Chapter 9

_Day 9:_

Three days. Three days and all John had was an address and an informant no older than ten. He had Mary's money, which he stopped accepting, and the gift that the mysterious woman had given him. So, all in all, he had nothing. The days seemed shorter, and his heartbeat seemed faster. He wanted to understand what it meant, but he was no Sherlock Holmes.

The man rolled out of his bed and fumbled for his cane. He grabbed his phone next. On it was a message, a voicemail from Thomas. John blinked a few times, wondering why the man had even bothered to call. That was something he hadn't done before- he usually said that the police were tapping the lines and listening. John clicked on his voicemail box and put his phone to his ear.

"John… John… They're here." Thomas' breathing was ragged, and he was speaking at a hurried whisper. "They're gonna find me. So you need to know, I found him, Sherlock. He was last spotted in the drugs district, not too far from where you're staying, and he's been-" There was a gasp, the sound of a gun with a silencer being fired, and the phone falling to the ground. John squeezed his eyes shut and balled his hands into fists.

"Oh, Johnny-boy, you're getting close. No more help for you." James Moriarty sounded just as John remembered he did. If the man's manner did not betray his insanity, his crazed tones and quickly changing temper did.

With that, the message ended. John opened his eyes and threw the phone into the mattress. A good friend was dead, and he truly had no one left that he could rely on.

John stood up slowly, for he was shaking both with anger and exhaustion. He couldn't remember why he had taken on this mission, or why he even cared any more. He could always have crawled back to Harry as he had done several times before. But this deal he had made, his deal with the devil, had trapped him. John knew that even Mycroft could not pull him out of the pit he was stuck in.

The doctor walked out of the hotel, too shell-shocked to feel hunger or the pain that normally resonated in his leg. The people around him didn't notice him, no one ever did; he was just another man, an ordinary man. John would not find Sherlock. He would die.

There was one kernel of hope left for John, though. He knew where Sherlock had been last seen, and Thomas had confirmed that Sherlock was indeed nearby. All John had to do was hope and search. He had started a network, and if he could extend it in the next few days, there was a good chance that he could still live. He could go back to London and back to his office and back to his comforts. John sighed at the thought, his resolve strengthening by the minute. He had to find the other man. His life was at stake.

* * *

><p>Luca sat the other children in front of him and showed them the money he had gotten. He explained to them in his mother-tongue how he had gotten it. He told them that there was more money in it for them if they found the man 'Sherluck Holmes' and told the limp-man about him. Luca explained that the limp-man was kind and had helped him. He described the man they were looking for and told them where he had last seen him.<p>

"Twenty American dollars?" The amount was huge. It could take care of a small family for a while. The smaller children's eyes gleamed at the prospect of not begging for a week. The younger ones scrambled off into their respective begging-territories to find the man. The older children seemed more reserved.

"Luca, if you are lying, I will take Jennay and skin her." Luca knew the boy that had spoken well; he was older and had violent tendencies. He was called 'the Dog' by all of the other kids on the streets.

"He offered to buy me a hotel room."

"Probably to rape you," the Dog pointed out. Luca knew he had a point, but the limp-man was different from the other tourists. He was vigilant and determined. Luca had seen that in his eyes.

"He will still give you money if you find the Holmes-man." The Dog pondered the thought for a moment before turning around.

"Siinan, you take the upper-drugs market. Takal, you get the lower-drugs." The older boy looked back at Luca and held a hand out.

"If I find the Holmes-man, you will bring me to the limp-man?" Luca nodded and shook the Dog's hand.

"I will."

* * *

><p>"I find more," Luca informed John. The two were sitting down in seats outside of a small cantina. John was jumpier than normal, Luca noted, and was vigilantly watching out for whatever the older man was afraid of. "More kid to find Sherluck."<p>

"Thank you." A hint of a smile played on John's face. "But I hope you're not expecting me to give them all as much as I gave you. I don't have that much left."

"No. They get money if they find man. If not…" The boy shrugged. "They beg extra hard next days to earn back monies." John nodded to himself, simply because he did not know what else to do. Earlier, John had ordered a small meal for the boy, and the child had eaten it like he had never eaten in his life. John felt bad, but didn't know what else he could do, not with a budget as thinly strung as his own.

"Luca, who is Jennay?" The child almost choked on his last bite of food when John mentioned the name. There was a panic in his eyes. The boy swallowed hard.

"Jennay is g… gone…"

"Gone?"

"Gone from family."

"You mean lost?" John leaned back, watching the child carefully. He had heard that there was a child-trafficking business in the region, but he wasn't sure exactly what that would have to do with either Luca or Jennay.

"Jennay taken many year ago from tourist family. They not search for her, and she not able to go home. I beg for her money to buy ticket on fly." The whole situation was beyond odd.

"She was kidnapped? How did you find her?" Luca took a moment to understand what was being said. Confusedly, he responded,

"She scream too loud. Men kick her out of car because she give loud ideas to other kids taken from other tourists."

"Luca, can you take me to see Jennay?"

The child seemed distrusting, but after a few minutes of silence, he nodded. Maybe a tourist would know other tourists and could bring the girl back to her home.

Luca led John through the seediest part of town and into an abandoned building. Old women stared at the boy and John, and spoke in harshly uttered tones in a language that John did not know. They were watching, but the people around them did nothing. The building was obviously not truly abandoned. Just because the manufacturers decided that it wasn't usable did not mean that the homeless locals did not. There was coughing and the sounds of young babies crying. John looked at sickly babes and old men. In London, they would have had proper care and the child with obvious dysentery would have been fine. The old man with the rattling cough, possibly pneumonia, would have been treated as soon as possible, if he had gone to one of the charity clinics…

Finally, Luca stopped in front of a curtain behind machinery that had once been used for packaging, it seemed. He pulled it aside, speaking quickly in his own language. A girl with bright blue eyes looked at John, her mouth hanging open in shock.

"Hello, I'm John Watson, are you Jennay?" She stood up and swallowed hard. Her gaze was piercing, bright, and engaging.

"I'm Jenny Kaftan. Can you take me home?"

* * *

><p>John had to leave. It was night, and he needed to get back to the hotel before the truly seedy nightlife came out. The girl, Jenny, was from Goldsboro, North Carolina. Her parents perhaps had looked for her, but the kidnappers made it look like she had been killed, so perhaps they did not even know that she was still alive. When he got back to his room, John phoned Mary, whom he knew was only a few rooms over. She at his door in under a minute.<p>

"What?" she asked. She seemed hurt that John hadn't talked to her in days.

"There's a girl. Jenny Kaftan. She was kidnapped and escaped and I want to get her home." John looked the woman square in the eyes. "I don't care if you're working for Moriarty or not. I don't want to know. But please, if I really do only have two days left after tonight, see to it that she gets back home."

Something changed in Mary's behaviour. She straightened up. "I am a woman with a heart. I will see what I can do." John scribbled down where Jenny had been living and what information he had gotten from her.

"I'm trusting you."

"This is one thing that you can trust me on," the woman promised. She kissed his cheek and walked out of the room, her high-heels clacking loudly behind her, a herald of her exit. When the door closed, John sat heavily on his bed. He was tired. He was so tired. He wrestled his shoes off and glanced at his phone. There was a text waiting for him.

_So close. -JM_

_AN: Sorry for the shitty chapter. The story's drawing to a close, and I can't wait to write the ending. *maniacal laughing*_


	10. Chapter 10

_Day 10:_

The morning was too bright, the people were too loud, and the weather was too hot. John sat out in the shade of an umbrella at a café. He was writing a note to Mary explaining what she should do to find the parents of Jenny. He also was writing a separate letter to Mycroft, asking him to tell Harry if he died. His handwriting was scrawling and tight; his hands were shaking, threatening to make his the notes illegible. He stood up when he was done and walked to the nearest post, which was not too far away, and mailed off the letter to Mycroft. He didn't dare call the man in case the call was recorded or tracked him to where he was. He limped to Mary's apartment and slid the letter to her under the door.

John found himself walking to the beach. There was nothing there for him, he knew, because it was inevitably going to be filled with loud tourists and screaming children, locals working bars and pickpockets sliding among the people silently. He did have his eyes out for his own 'homeless network,' but he was at a disadvantage because he didn't know which children were looking out for Sherlock and which ones were simply running around with tourists.

John missed his flat. He missed his sister. And most of all, he missed not being tired. That was the best way to describe how he felt. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to talk. He just wanted to sit down and stay there. John was resigned to death, because he saw no way to escape from his deal with the devil.

"Look, John, you're a nice man, but you shouldn't have come here." The ex-soldier turned around swiftly to see Mary standing behind him. Her eyes were tracking the ocean on the horizon, as though she could not make eye contact with him. "You could have just ignored Moriarty, or gone to someone for help. What made you think you could do this on your own?"

Insulted, John raised an eyebrow. "I had to find Sherlock, and I didn't care about what happened to me."

"Do you now?"

That quieted the man. Mary looked down at her sandals. They were new, expensive, and red. She was wearing a white top that bared too much of her breasts and a grey skirt that bordered on being scandalous for a married woman. She was so young, though, and there was something in her eyes, something sad.

"You can't win, John. Moriarty's rigged the game. From what he told me, he just wants to use you to force Sherlock out of hiding. Your death would do that. That's why you won't be able to win this. You should never have taken his offer!"

"Why do you care?" John was rattled. She was admitting that she was, in fact, everything that he had feared her to be.

"You're a nice man, John. You've got your head screwed on right, and you're agreeable. I mean, you watched over me, you're feeding homeless children, and finding a girl's lost parents. Why should a man like you die?" Mary's hands tightened on her purse that she was carrying. "I mean, look at Dominic! Well, _you_ call him Dominick… But Moriarty hired him off of the streets to be an actor. That man enjoys watching things burn so much. I heard that he burned his wife and children to death. He lit a home on fire here, full of elderly people, not a week ago. Why is it that he's allowed to live and you're not?"

"Because I was stupid enough to take Moriarty's challenge."

"Stupid?" the woman shook her head. "No, you're not stupid. You're loyal. So very loyal. You just could have just let it be! But what did you think would happen? You'd go back to London with Sherlock? Somehow you had to know that it never was going to happen like that." Mary shook her head slowly.

John stood up, working with his cane to keep his legs from protesting. "Mary, you will look for the girl's parents, right?"

"Yes. I may work for Moriarty, but that doesn't mean that I'm as heartless as him. I'm only following his orders for the money. The man does pay well." She pulled her bag in front of her. Immediately, John grabbed her arm, worried that she was carrying a firearm. "John, please, I'm not going to hurt you." His slowly pried his fingers off of her skin. She pulled out the letter that John had put under the door of her and her 'husband.'

"I read it, and I will take care of her. But I can't promise the same from you. You're going to die, John, and there's nothing that any of us can do about it." She pulled John into a quick hug and kissed his forehead, "You are a dead man, Dr Watson, but I wish you the best."

"Mary," he asked as she turned away. She stopped moving and finally made eye contact with him.

"Yes?"

"Is that your real name?" The woman gave a small smile.

"I can't tell you that." With a small smile and a hand on her hips, Mary turned away and walked onto the street. She was quickly lost among the crowd. John stood there, a bewildered look settling on his face. He looked to where she had been standing. There was another syringe there.

Without another thought, John kicked it as far as he could. He didn't want to play anymore games. He turned away from the street and walked. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't care. There was no way that he would find Sherlock. Moriarty had known the whole time, and Mary had simply led him to his end. For hours, he wandered around markets, churches, apartments, and hotels to get sufficiently lost.

He came upon a small, grungy park. The bench was half-eaten away with moss and rot. He didn't care. John sat down on it heavily. The sun was starting to fall, so he collected that it was sometime just after lunch. He had been walking for hours.

"Limp-man." A whisper came from the bushes adjacent to where the doctor was sitting. John knew the voice of a child when he heard one.

"Hello. You can come out." From the bushes, a scraped up and dirty girl came out. She had large brown eyes and small lips. Her brown hair was pulled back with a dirty rubber band, the kind that John had seen on produce for sale in local markets.

"Limp-man."

"I'm John." He held out his hand, trying to get the girl to say something else.

"Serluck Humes." She grabbed the hand that he had held out and tugged on it. "Found Serluck Humes."

John didn't dare believe it, but his heart skipped a beat. Maybe this was something that Moriarty had not seen coming from him. Perhaps this was his one way to win, his homeless network. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but honest excitement. He could not believe his luck, so he was wary nonetheless.

"Take me to him, please." The girl's face lit up with an excited smile as she thought of getting money from the man and filling her stomach for the first time in weeks. She tugged on his hand and led him down the main street.

"Money if see him?" she asked softly, eyes locked on the alleyways for some reason.

"Yes, of course. I have forty American dollars on me right now. You can have all of it." John was only planning on giving away twenty of it so he could have a meal, but suddenly he didn't care. The girl might have saved his life.

She walked and walked, finally coming up to a large alleyway. She turned into it and made her way deeper into what she knew as the drug's district. There was a large dumpster that sat between a connection of three alleys. She led John to one side of it and sat him down.

"He come on minute." She grinned slightly and sat down across from him. As she thought of warm food, John thought of Sherlock, his heart pounding. This was it. He was going to have his life back. He could visit Harry and Clara. He could get his job at the surgery back. He could live again. And best of all, he would have his friend back again.

* * *

><p>As night closed in on them, John grew uncomfortable. Sirens roared through the streets around them. There were gunshots and yells. He had known that he was not in a 'tourist-approved' area, but he hadn't known that he would have gotten himself somewhere too dangerous. He was about to open his mouth and ask the girl where he was when he heard a familiar voice.<p>

"I have the money," Sherlock offered someone. Carefully, John peered out from behind the dumpster to see who he was talking to. Sherlock had a woman hanging onto his arm, and the man looked worse than John had ever seen him. His eyes were blood-shot and his eyes were sunken into his skull. He was even shaking, which surprised John more than anything else. A hooded man held out several vial of liquid. John's eyes narrowed. Sherlock gave the hooded man a wad of money, and the man gave Sherlock two containers of some opaque liquid. There was another siren and the man ran off.

Sherlock stood in the alleyway, staring at the vials. The woman clinging onto his arm pulled out two syringes from her purse and leaned Sherlock against the wall. She whispered something to him in a foreign language. Sherlock replied in the same language and pulled his sleeve up. From her purse, the woman produced a broken rubber band and tied it above the crook of Sherlock's arm. He moaned nonsense and pushed himself against the wall.

"Hurry up," he demanded roughly. "Dammit." She grinned and poured on of the vials into the syringe and pushed the needle into Sherlock's arm. His eyes fluttered back into his head. His breathing relaxed. He smiled at her as she injected herself and tore off the tourniquet from his arm.

John hardly remembered pulling out his phone. He pulled up the contact that had no name on it, other than 'Moriarty.' With steady hands he texted, -I won't be able to find Sherlock. Come and get me. I'm sure you know where I am.-  
>He handed the girl what money he was carrying and walked past Sherlock, who did not even recognise him. He stood on the street for no more than a minute before he was pulled into a sleek black car. A gag was put in his mouth and his eyes were covered.<p>

_There will be one more chapter after this, but it will be a short epilogue. Thank you for making this fic so popular!_

_~Shara_


	11. Chapter 11

The Final Day-

"Remember, Moran, send him all of the video. I don't want him to think he can avoid me," James Moriarty purred as he typed away on his phone. A tall, blonde man disabled a camera from a tripod and nodded. Moran took the cigarette out of his mouth and turned to his boss.

"D'ya want me te send it te both of the Holmes brothers?" Moriarty took a moment to ponder the question.

"Yes, yes, of course. It would be nice for the elder Holmes to know that he can't do anything without me letting him first." His grin was child-like with his glee. "You know, Moran, he is my favourite puppet."

"Yeah, so you've said," was the terse response.

"Are you complaining about this?" Moriarty asked, motioning to the corpse in the chair, which sat opposite from where the camera had been. The dead man was short, with blonde hair, and tanned skin. Moran felt like he could still hear the man's screams. He was impressed, though, because Dr John Watson had never begged. Of all the people Moriarty's soldier had tortured, this man was the first to die with true dignity.

"No, boss."

_And so ends the tale of Dr John Hamish Watson._

_AN: I really enjoyed writing this story, even if I didn't do regular updates... Please review if you liked it. Critiques are completely welcome, because I'm working on publishing my own stories; I would love to know what I can do to improve my writing style/ characterisation._


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